Dragonheart

soon returned, giving the dragons a partly apologetic, partly challenging blerp  and directing them toward another clump of Thread.

Even with the watch-whers guiding them to the clumps, the night fight was awful. Dragon after dragon bellowed in pain as unseen Thread scored and they ducked between.  Some did not return.

The watch-whers fared worse. K’lior soon learned not to wince at the painful high-pitched scream of a fatally Threaded watch-wher.

Nuellask was everywhere, rallying the watch-whers, chiding the dragons, chewing Thread. She paid the price for her leadership and several times bellowed in pain before going between  to rid herself of Thread.

When Nuella at last relayed that the Thread had moved on to fall over the sea, where it would drown, K’lior gratefully gave the orders to return to the Weyr.

Tell Nuellask that all injured watch-whers should follow us,  K’lior added. And remind me to send a sweep wing to look for burrows in the morning.

For all their work, K’lior was certain that Thread had fallen through to the ground in the darkness. He shuddered at the thought of what the ground might look like in the morning.

Take us to the Hold, Rineth,  K’lior said. I must speak with the Lord Holder.

Contrary to K’lior’s fears, Lord Egremer was effusive with his praise of the dragons and their riders.

“We’ll have ground crews out at first light, I promise,” he said. He looked nervously northward, toward where Thread had fallen. “How bad is it, do you suppose?”

K’lior shook his head. “We did our best,” he said. “But the warm weather meant that every Thread was alive. The watch-whers were overwhelmed and we’d never trained with them, so our coordination was lousy.”

Lady Yvala’s eyes grew wide with alarm.

“We’ll have sweepriders out at first light,” K’lior promised. “As soon as we see anything, we’ll let you know.”

“I’d hate to lose the stands of timber to the north,” Lord Egremer said. “They’re old enough to be harvested, but I was hoping to hold off until mid-Pass, when we’ll really be needing the wood.”

K’lior nodded. “We’ll do our best.”

“And we’re grateful for all that you’ve done,” Egremer replied. Wearily, K’lior mounted Rineth and directed him home.

The morning dawned gray, cold, and cloudy. Even Cisca was subdued.

“The reports are in from T’mar on sweep,” she said as she nudged K’lior awake, handing him a mug of steaming klah.  K’lior raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Cisca made a face. “Five burrows.” K’lior groaned. Cisca made a worse face and K’lior gave her a go-on gesture.

“Two are well-established. They’ll have to fire the timber stands.”

K’lior sat up, taking a long sip of his klah.  He gave Cisca a measuring look, then asked, “Casualties?”

Cisca frowned. “Between the illness and Thread, twenty-three have gone between.  F’dan and P’der will be laid up with injuries for at least six months. Troth, Piyeth, Kaderth, Varth, and Bidanth are all seriously injured and will also take at least six months to heal. There are eleven other riders or dragons with injuries that will keep them from flying for the next three months.”

“So, we’ve what — seventy dragons and riders fit to fly?”

“Seventy-five,” Cisca corrected. “And we’ve got over three seven days before our next Fall. I’m sure that we’ll have more dragons fit to fly by then.”

“Three sevendays is not enough time,” K’lior grumbled, rising from their bed and searching out some clothes.

“No, you don’t,” Cisca said sharply, getting up and pushing him toward the baths. “You smell. You’re getting bathed before you do anything else.”

K’lior opened his mouth to protest, but Cisca silenced him with a kiss.

“If you’re nice,” she teased, “I may join you.”

K’lior tried very hard to be nice.

Lord Holder Egremer scowled at the line of smoke in the distance. Forty Turns’ worth of growth, gone. Three whole valleys had been put to flames before the dragonriders and ground crews could declare Southern Boll Hold free from Thread.

The rains would come soon and the burnt land would lose all its topsoil. He could expect floods to ravage the remnants of those valleys. In the end, there might be a desert where once there had been wide forests.

It would be worse for his holders. They had expected years of work and income culling the older trees, planting new, and working the wood into fine pieces of furniture. Now Southern Boll would be dependent upon its pottery, spices, and the scant foodstuffs it could raise for its trade with the other Holds.

The Hold would take Turns to recover.

“I’m sorry, Egremer,” a disconsolate K’lior repeated. “If there’s anything the Weyr can do to help — ”

Egremer sighed and turned back to the Weyrleader. K’lior was a good ten Turns younger than himself, and while Egremer wanted desperately to blame someone, he knew that it would be unfair to blame the dragonrider.

He forced a smile. “I appreciate that, K’lior,” he replied. “And there might be more that you can do than you know.”

K’lior gave him an inquiring look.

“If I could have the loan of a weyrling or two, to help scout out the damage and maybe haul some supplies . . .”

“Weyrlings we have a-plenty,” K’lior said. He shook his head. “It’s full-grown dragons that are scarce.”

“I’d heard that your losses are high from the illness,” Egremer replied. “Is there anything we can do for you, Weyrleader?”

For a moment, K’lior made no reply, staring off into space, thinking.

“Nothing,” he said at last, angrily. “You can’t give us more mature dragons, or heal our wounded more quickly.”

Egremer’s face drained. “How long do we have, then?”

K’lior’s face grew ashen. “Fort is lucky. We don’t have another Threadfall in the next three sevendays. We’ll probably be able to fight that,” he answered, adding with a shake of his head, “but I can’t say about the next Fall.”

The despair that gripped the Weyrleader was palpable. Egremer looked for some words of encouragement to give him but could find none. It was K’lior who spoke next, pulling himself erect and willing a smile back on to his face.

“We’ll find a way, Lord Egremer,” he declared with forced cheer. “We’re dragonriders, we always find a way.” He nodded firmly and then said to Egremer, “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Certainly!” Egremer replied. “I’ll see you out. And don’t worry about those weyrlings, if it’s too much bother. Having them would only save us time.”

K’lior stopped so suddenly that Egremer had to swerve to avoid bumping into him.

“Time!” K’lior shouted exultantly. He turned to Egremer and grabbed him on both shoulders. “That’s it! Time! We need time.”

Egremer smiled feebly, wondering if the dragon’s sickness could affect riders as well. K’lior just as suddenly let go of the Lord Holder and raced out of the Hold.

“Thank you, Lord Egremer, you’ve been most helpful,” he called as he climbed up to his perch on Rineth.

“Any time, Weyrleader,” Egremer called back, not at all certain what he had done, but willing to use the Weyrleader’s good cheer to elevate that of his holders rather than depress them more by looking at the Weyrleader as if he were mad.

“Cisca, it’s time!” K’lior yelled up from the Bowl to their quarters as soon as he returned between  from Southern Boll. “That’s what we need, time!”

Cisca stepped up to the ledge in Melirth’s quarters and peered down to K’lior. “Of course we need time,” she